


in the palm of mine

by NoRationalThoughtRequired



Series: disturb the universe [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bookshop Owner Geralt, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fluff, Geralt Being Unexpectedly Poetic About Jaskier, Geralt POV, Introspection, Lazy Mornings, M/M, so many metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:33:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29901135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoRationalThoughtRequired/pseuds/NoRationalThoughtRequired
Summary: Jaskier convinces Geralt to take a day off and spend the day snuggling in bed. Geralt might be willing to admit that it’s not a terrible idea.(Written for the Sugar & Spice Witcher Bingo Challenge. This is part of my established Bookshop AU series, but it stands alone.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: disturb the universe [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1772170
Comments: 15
Kudos: 114





	in the palm of mine

**Author's Note:**

> A couple of days ago, I completed the Sugar & Spice Witcher Bingo challenge on tumblr! I hadn't originally intended to post those fics here, but then I thought about it and figured that I've already titled and written summaries for them all, so they might as well go over here, too! I did the all-fluff version of the challenge and wrote a mix of geraskier and yentriss, with both canon 'verse and modern settings. I'll be posting all these fics here over the next several days. Hope you all enjoy!!
> 
> Prompt: Snuggling. Part of my series with Bookshop Owner Geralt and Musician Jaskier. Title is lowkey from Keaton Henson's "Small Hands," which has _absolutely nothing_ to do with the plot of this fic! (So there's no angst. None!)

“I have to admit,” Geralt murmurs, his voice as soft as the mid-morning light streaming in the windows of Jaskier’s bedroom, “when you proposed this idea, I thought it was ridiculous.”

Jaskier cuddles closer, buries his face in Geralt’s neck, presses a kiss to the soft skin leading to Geralt’s shoulder. “Oh, you don’t say.”

The smirk is audible in Jaskier’s voice, but Geralt pulls back anyway, and sure enough, there it is, tugging at the corner of Jaskier’s lips. It’s a smirk that begs to be kissed, and Geralt, well, he doesn’t even try to resist the temptation.

The kiss is slow, thorough, fitting for a Saturday morning in which the only thing on the agenda for the day is time in each other’s arms. He could spend hours this way; days, months, _years_ of his life passing as he holds Jaskier tight to him.

It’s not the worst thought he’s ever had.

Eventually, reluctantly, he leans back. He considers the possibility of abandoning the conversation entirely, instead doing something far more worthwhile with his time, like losing himself in the ongoing catalogue of all the different shades of blue in Jaskier’s eyes. That idea has significant merit. Perhaps he’ll return to it later.

“I never actually _said_ it, though.” Geralt feels as though he should offer some kind of protest. “That it was ridiculous.”

“You didn’t need to _say_ it, my darling.”

Jaskier stretches, long and languid, and Geralt allows his eyes to wander down the length of him, the wild and messy hair, the glasses askew on his face, the rumpled and faded Juilliard t-shirt, the pajama pants with penguins in scarves and ice skates, the socks with neon colored ice cream cones. He looks ridiculous. He looks beautiful.

“Mmmmhmmmm, yeah, look your fill,” Jaskier continues, his smirk turning saucy. “It’s high fashion over here. Anyway, I’ve become well versed in all the things you say and all the things you _don’t_ say, and when I said, two weeks ago, that I think that, for once, you should take a day off and we should spend this entire weekend here in this very room, curled around each other and cuddled up in bed, your voice said, ‘Sure, Jaskier, that sounds like a great idea.’ But your very eloquent right eyebrow, arched clear to the sky, and the side-eye that you gave Triss and Eskel that you hoped I wouldn’t see, and the ten-second-long pause before you answered all practically screamed, ‘Jaskier, what the fuck, that is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.’”

He leans in, so very close, so close that the tips of their noses almost touch, and his smirk widens. “Did I misinterpret?”

Geralt darts forward, quick as lightning, and presses a hard kiss to Jaskier’s lips, delighting in the way Jaskier tries to follow, to prolong the kiss. “You did not.”

It should alarm him, how thoroughly Jaskier can read him, how well he knows the things Geralt says, the things he doesn’t. He has spent so long hiding his heart. He should be terrified at how easily Jaskier has scaled the walls around it, at how he’s created a place for himself there, a corner of Geralt’s very soul to call his own.

It doesn’t alarm him, though. It doesn’t terrify him. Not even close.

He sinks backwards into the nest of blankets and quilts and pillows that have overtaken Jaskier’s bed on this cold January morning, his first day off that’s not otherwise a holiday in fucking _years_ , and he pulls Jaskier with him, wraps his arms tighter around Jaskier’s waist, holds him close. Jaskier rests his head on Geralt’s shoulder, a comforting weight, and that’s the thing about Jaskier, the thing that Geralt doesn’t understand, doesn’t know if he’ll _ever_ understand.

Jaskier is wild and unpredictable, and Geralt never knows what the next day with him is going to bring. He’s a constant mystery, a riddle Geralt is no closer to solving even after more than a year together, and yet somehow, while Jaskier leaves him wondering where their path is going to lead, Jaskier’s presence is a comfort to him. A reminder that if Geralt takes a leap, Jaskier will be right there with him. If they fall, they fall together.

But _oh_ , there’s the chance that, with each other, they might _soar_ , and the possibility of the heights that they might reach together far outweighs the fear that they will plummet to the earth.

He never used to think with such vivid imagery before he met Jaskier. It still shocks him sometimes, when his thoughts turn to poetry, and he tries to muffle a laugh at his own fancy in the wisps of Jaskier’s hair. He doesn’t quite succeed.

Jaskier shifts against him, presses his feet in between Geralt’s shins, and Geralt steels himself for yet another grumble over Geralt’s one tyrannical condition for their weekend of cuddling: that Jaskier, with his feet forever freezing cold, must wear socks at all times in which they are in bed together. This time, no complaints pass his lips. Instead, he presses a kiss to Geralt’s t-shirt-covered collarbone, walks his fingers along the bare skin above the waistband of Geralt’s pajama pants. “Something funny?” he murmurs.

Geralt reaches down, grasps Jaskier’s hand before it can commence any mischief, and holds it up, their hands resting together, palm to palm in front of their faces. “No, not funny.”

He lets their fingers entwine. He marvels, as he always does, at how well their hands fit together. At how well _they_ fit together.

He presses a kiss to the back of Jaskier’s hand, to each one of his fingers. Jaskier’s lips part, an _oh_ of wonder, and Geralt kisses them, too.

“Just amazed, as I always am, that you’re here with me. Bringing me light and poetry to my thoughts and a weekend of snuggles to keep me out of the cold.”

A rosy blush rises on Jaskier’s cheeks, and what can Geralt do but bestow kisses there as well?

“I think I’d like to hear these poetic thoughts of yours.”

“Hmmmm. No. No, I think I need at least thirty more minutes of cuddling before my reason has been overtaken enough to spout poetry at you.”

Jaskier leans in again, kisses him once more, lets his lips linger. Geralt allows it, welcomes it; they’re both loath to part.

When Jaskier speaks, he breathes the words into the tiniest of spaces between them. “I saw that volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets that Yen gave you for Christmas, you know. So I expect your poetry to be in proper iambic pentameter. Use this cuddle time wisely, dear Geralt. I expect to be wowed, and _wooed_.”

Years ago, such a challenge would have Geralt making a hasty and strategic retreat. Now, with Jaskier in his arms, pressed warm against him, the dare in his smile tempered with an almost overwhelming amount of fondness, Geralt feels the serenity that accompanies certainty wash over him: he will leap, Jaskier with him, and together they will fly.

“Wowed and wooed, hmmmm? I think I can manage that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Come say hi on [the tumblr](https://norationalthoughtrequired.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
